


Bed Bugs.

by Palus_Hiemalis



Category: Un monstre à Paris | A Monster in Paris (2011)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Francoeur avoids Impure Thoughts (tm), Lucille is Most Improper, My trademark style: nothing happens but FEEELLLINNGS, Snoozing, Unsatisfying grip of fate looms over characters, sleeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palus_Hiemalis/pseuds/Palus_Hiemalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Franc and Lucille collapse after a busy new years show and each wake up to find they are snuggled with the other. <br/>Chapters will be short.<br/>(Titled as such because I am the worst.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happy New Years.

**Author's Note:**

> Just watched UMAP for the first time yesterday and like everyone I was de  
> lighted to discover such a charming movie and disappointed in the fact that Franc/Lucille wasn't a thing, or at least, no brush of romance when there were sO MANY SET UPS FOR IT IN THE DAMN MOVIE.  
> With many beauty and beast tales, the story goes as such: the beast is denied humanity although he clearly possesses it, usually by being an artist, so when he is granted humanity, usually by a beautiful woman, he takes advantage of it to the woman's behest and has to learn that humanity lies in selflessness, and so lets the person who granted him humanity in the first place, go. Often in the wake of a world who will never accept him.  
> Hunchback of Notre Dame, Beauty and the Beast, Phantom of the Opera, they all follow this pattern, and there are hundreds of adaptations of these works with varying levels of tragedy. So I was surprised when it was left out the movie, I mean, yes its a kid's movie but there are kid friendly ways of going about it. So all the fic I am writing will probably focus on this, mostly because I didn't like how Franc, a sensitive and emotional soul, was treated like a jumped up pet a lot of the time.  
> Enjoy some fluff angst. (Flangst?)

The crowd thundered; cheers rang out and bottles popped as Lucille and Franc took their bows. From the stage, the footlights made every twinkle of jewellery or champagne glow in heady bubbles of light. Together they flew off the stage into the wings; Midnight had long past but the excitement had stayed with them all evening. Francoeur tumbled into the backstage, bounding into the dressing and practically vaulting off the walls. Lucille's aunt was waiting with champange for the both of them, which she sipped before laughing. Hurrying inside the dressing room she shut the door and beamed at Franc.  
"Four new songs, and every single one a standing ovation!"  
Francoeur was yanking off his shoes on a stool, he chittered in response. Unsure of what to do with his champagne flute, he let it sit on a bedside table and gazed at its rich colour in the dressing room's lamp light.  
"I know, you have out done yourself, my friend!" She giggled and took off her little costume wings, tonight she wore a jade green dress with golden trim, but the wings remained customary to her performances. Francoeur sported a brown suit with matching embellishments, a long green scarf trailed behind him.  
Francoeur pretended to dust his knuckles on his lapels with a pleased smile before yawning.  
"Oh, so no encore for you?" Lucille leant against her dresser and finished off the last drips of champagne in her glass. She knew the patrons were starting to filter out and they normally did not play anywhere near this late in the night. It must have been about two in the morning.  
Franc shook his head and settled into the sofa, slipping his second pair of arms out of his sleeve to rest on his belly.  
Lucille laughed from behind a hand, "I see how it is, have I got to party by myself? Don't tell me you're going to leave me to finish all of the left over champagne with Raoul?!" She said mockingly, she tugged on his sleeve gently, "Oh come on, you will ruin that suit if you sleep in it!"  
Francoeur rumbled in a somewhat sigh, he knew perfectly well the post-show buzz would wear off for her in time. Stuffing himself further into the makeshift bed, he closed his brilliant red eyes.  
She hummed playfully, comfortably tipsy from the complimentary refreshments, "I've had enough? The suit will survive? Bon alors."  
She could slightly feel his leg press against her back as she sat down, they were stretched all the way over to the other arm and crossed at the ankles, but he couldn't prevent his knees, or whatever the flea equivalent was, from sticking out ever so slightly. She was unafraid to touch him, it was a necessity when fitting his suit and performing. How else do you teach a giant flea to waltz other than to prod him into the right postures?  
Her eyes became heavy and she propped herself back against him, he didn't protest and had likely already fallen asleep. Lucille could hear the slowly fading burble of the crowd as they emptied out the club, she knew if she made her way to the car parked out front she would have to shake a hundred hands and kiss every cheek twice before she could leave. She certainly didn't fancy that. She got up and turned down the lights and slipped into a dressing gown behind her screen.  
"Francoeur. Francoeur, Move over." She said, wearily pressing his side.  
Immovable as always, Franc simply exhaled and shuffled in place, Lucille clicked her tongue and without thinking clambered over him. Her long lace sleeves dripped over his sides and she made herself comfortable on his chest; the slight tickle of the wool of his suit against her cheek felt perfect at that moment, the rise and fall of his chest, even more so.


	2. Franc awakens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francoeur wakes up to find Lucille upon him. Francoeur is blusshu.

ting. t-ting. t-ting ting ting. ting.

Francoeur made a low purr as he awoke; what was that noise? It was slightly melodic - high pitched but gentle - he'd have to work it into some future music, he was sure some human instrument could make that sound. He turned his head, it was the last of the fizz in his unfinished glass. He turned his head back blearily closed he eyes again, he hated being so sensitive to noise at times, in fact, every sense was becoming a bother. As a small flea this was never an issue, as a big flea it painted the world in extraordinary colours, both marvellous and tedious. His bristles were simply extended ears, in a way, the scientist had explained in his theory of how adept he had become at musical performance and theory, not to mention how quick of a learner he was. He was literally, to employ the human term, all ears. Perhaps all nose and tongue, too.  
His mind was caught on bristles as something seemed to be disturbing them at his collar. He looked to the window once more, raining ran down the window in shiny streaks, the light only just breaking in a dull blue: what a miserable start to the year... There must have been a draught, he adjusted slightly in place to turn away from it and registered the weight on his chest.  
Oh, oh my.   
All of his bristles flat lay flat and his eyes fixed on the crumpled form of Lucille, who lay tucked about him in a night gown. Her elbows and knees sunk into the creases and folds of his suit, every available crook had been occupied. She was wearing fine lace, it was like snow had settled on his suit over night.   
His mind snagged on a brief memory of Emile explaining what blushing was to him; Maud blushed when she giggled behind her hand, Raoul blushed when Lucille dragged him up to dance, Emile blushed when people thanked him for running the projector after a film. He had concluded that blushing was what happened when Lucille kissed him on stage, only on the inside (for which he was grateful.) This situation didn’t seem to fit any of the contexts offered to him. In a way, he felt strangely joyful, on the other hand, a confusion stifled all his thoughts. The confusion did not seem strange, it felt perfectly justified for the current happen-stance, but it did not seem to fall in the categories of sad, angry or elated, which was unhelpful.  
Staying still he let his eyes pick their way carefully up Lucille; her eyes were closed and her nose was only just showing, puffs of breath tingled against him. Her hair was down and tumbled in loose coils across her shoulders like a shawl, her hands were bunched up on his chest and acted as a makeshift pillow. Finally, he took note of her figure, her body meandered about him and her pale skin peeked through the sheer lace of her gown in places, revealing smutty freckles. She had managed to part his legs with her own and every inch of her seemed at peace.  
A mix of panic and joy swirled about him, he felt light headed. Every once in a while when he was alone, he thought about the post-show hugs and stage kisses he received from her lasting longer, the feel of them lingering on his nose or cheek, or her arms pulling him in as tight as she could manage. But it was never like this. He felt the urge to smile and the urge to cover his eyes, so he looked at the ceiling, making a wobbly grin.  
He took a deep breath and assessed the situation. Was it proper for Lucille to be there? Lucille was always saying that. Its not proper for him to eat with his hands out of his gloves, its not proper for Raoul to whistle at her when she tried on a new dress, its not proper to climb onto the roof unless there is a proper reason to do so. Most of the time when she said this she didn’t seem to mind the properness of the situation at all, rather the people around her minded a lot, she and minded what those people thought. It was all very convoluted for him to fully grasp.  
So what was the proper thing to do? Lucille was affected by the few glasses of champagne she had, so likely she was not able to judge whether a situation was proper or not, as she usually could. Had she fallen asleep accidentally? Did she pass out on him? If she was not okay, she would have been far more affected by her drinks and probably unable to perform, and she had been well by all accounts.   
He let out a deep breathe and stared into her ginger curls in the dim light, Lucille was an experience in every sense. From from her shoulders a scent lifted, it must have been from that bottle she kept on her dresser. Lucille had taken him to a few nice restaurants and taught him enough about wine tasting to let him catch a few notes; something bright, perhaps lemon? Something very sweet and exotic, that must be lily. Then there was this cosy, musky smell, something like fur or firewood. Ah, leather. It suited her.  
What was really wonderful in this small moment was her heartbeat. It thrummed about his shell like ripples on water, even and soft. It syncopated with her breathing in a way that was mildly unbearable, in the same way that Francoeur hated when a particularly sweet guitar lick had to stop and make way to a punchy drum solo, and that drum solo had to stand back for a big blast of grand horns, and so on. No, it was even worse, it was like when the last rattles of the band going wild at the end of a song ended on one big blast and took their bows. It was like not being able to take the little show home in his pocket as he stood applauding.   
He wriggled in frustration with himself. He had to sort this out, he was the one awake, after all. Lucille couldn’t be seen waking up on top of him, let alone let one of their close friends witness her cuddling up to a flea.   
He remembered briefly a movie showing Emile was holding, where the leading lady took a man to bed who transformed into a hairy wolf-man, and consequently spent the rest of the film shrieking or sobbing. Audience members whispered between scenes about how she should have not taken him to bed or put on more clothing or been more proper, the wolf-man was never brought up. It had brought back bad memories and he had had Lucille check the fitting of his suit later on that day.  
Solutions were needed; waking Lucille was out of the question, he estimated he was strong enough to pull himself out from under her and place her back on the couch and went about finding his arms.  
The first was deep in the roots of her hair at the nape of her neck, the second cradled her shoulder blades and the bottom pair met over the small of her back. Slowly, he slid his finger out from her hair and from behind her back and tried to part his second pair of hands. He heard a delicate ripping sound. He made the smallest squeal to match.  
Freezing in place, he slid his hands back into the corners they had found themselves in. Unwilling to wake her and refusing to ruin her dress, he stayed in place. Glancing at the clock, it read about five in the morning. He sighed, resigned to the situation and let his limbs rest on her figure, he let the gentle pressure of her weight on him soothe him as he drifted back to sleep.  
He would let her be and she could remove herself. Properly.


End file.
